


Buy a Statue About It

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Boners, Crowley was into it, Crowley's Wrestling Statue (Good Omens), During some periods of history SSC wasn't a thing, Embarrassment, First Time, Frottage, Humiliation kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Other, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Slight Wing Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, accidental arousal, immobilization kink, physical fighting, so you just had to rub your dick on a snake and hope for the best, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley finds that he quite enjoys scrapping with the angel. Aziraphale finds that he enjoys the demon's enjoyment. Their head offices would not approve.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 475
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s another [kink meme prompt fill.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2482009#cmt2482009)
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy it!

He's not good at this.

The angel, the principality, Aziraphale, is, physically speaking, stronger than him. It's why he has to be faster, and why, when he hasn't managed to be smarter and evade a physical altercation, he has to be wrigglier. There's a lot to be said for the combat value of a good wriggle.

And so, caught in the grasp of the adversary, held fast by strong limbs clasped firm enough to bruise mortal flesh, he wriggles. He wriggles like a wild thing.

Polyps on the ocean floor, small children who do not want to be subjected to bedtime, cats who do not want to swallow pills, none of them have anything on him. He wriggles and writhes, he bucks and he feints, and Aziraphale holds him down. He is implacable over Crowley, inexorable, immovable. He is a steady, strong presence with the entirety of his attention focussed on the demon, and it turns out that really does things for Crowley. 

Makes him hard, for one.

He's almost out of his head with the thrill of being restrained. That, he'll be certain when he thinks back on it later, is why he doesn't grasp the significance of the tightening in certain, often ignored, parts of his body and why he doesn't catch the shift from wriggling to squirming to undulating. He doesn't think on it at all until he hears Aziraphale shriek and the angel is suddenly, tragically, releasing him.

"Oh! Oh goodness, oh my," the angel flutters his hands about wildly from where he'd landed after positively ejecting himself from their tussle. 

"Oh, here!" he says, lifting a shawl from his shoulders. He hadn't been wearing it seconds ago – Crowley would have made a show of trying to strangle him with it if he'd been silly enough to fight with that on.

He tosses it to Crowley, and as he does so the demon tracks the movement of the angel's eyes from the shawl to – for the barest hint of a moment – the heavy space between Crowley's legs, then up to his own eyes.

Crowley considers himself something of an expert on these bodies. He's been using one longer than almost anyone else, as it happens, and knows all about why you don't try for a casual lounge against cacti and that human eyes definitely need to stay closed if you're going to try burying yourself in the sand – and that burying yourself in sand is much more difficult and less effective as a method of quick escape in a human body than it is as a snake, though it does still have the benefit of ending any awkward conversations by turning them into different awkward conversations. 

"Oh, oh bless." He knows what this is. He knows enough to be embarrassed by the entirely inappropriate addition of his erection to this otherwise perfectly normal workplace interaction. The humiliation is more in his inability to control it and the angel's reaction than it is in the fact that his corporation would do this at all.

"I know, it happens. It's the bodies. They seem to have a mind of their own sometimes."

"It happens to you too?" He asks, because his mind has stuck on the image of that.

"Oh, err, yes, err, sometimes. When things feel particularly nice, for me, usually." There's a pause before he adds, "You do learn to control it a bit better, with practice."

"Practice?" Crowley sputters.

"Well," the hand flutters are back, and more exuberant than before, "I only mean- I mean, that is, you can think of the right things and it'll go back to normal."

"What are the right things then?"

"Choir practice usually works. Do you remember, back in the old days before your," the angel gives him a pointed look, as he so often seems to when he's remembered he's conversing with a demon, "rebellion," and carries on over Crowley's muttered "Not really _my_ rebellion," "how most of the manna was so bland - it was almost impossible to find anything worth consuming, you know, not like it is now, thank God, but if you remember that, how it tasted back then, that can work too."

"Wait, She gave you better food after _we_ put that in our demands? After we- after everything we- Ridiculous!"

The angel puts his nose in the air. "The faithful deserve their rewards."

"Oh, bollocks!"

"Well, perhaps if your methods had been-"

Crowley, who's had this conversation with him before, decides he's had enough and moves for him.

His erection, which had been flagging, does a hard reverse when it brushes against the angel's leg in the ensuing scramble.

"Sorry, sorry," he concedes as he rolls away, concealing that entire side of his body from the angel's sight. It had blossomed up again so quickly he feels almost dizzy.

He hears Aziraphale shuffling behind him. "It's fine. It's not all that-" Aziraphale cuts himself off with something not quite pronounced enough to be a gasp.

"You were, actually, supposed to-" the angel exhales, then leans over Crowley to reach for the edge of the shawl again. "Here," he says more firmly, and drapes it over Crowley's hips. The demon makes a sound that is definitely not a squeak when the fabric brushes against the area of interest. He had considered the wrapping he'd worn fairly demure, but there's not enough length to it to conceal everything at the moment, given how the shape of what it's tasked with covering has changed.

"Thanks," he hisses, for the covering and the, well, not being nearly as big a dick about it as he would have expected. 

"It's, it's quite all right. I understand, really."

"Do you?" He shouldn't be petulant, but there are a lot of things he shouldn't be, and if he went around paying attention to that sort of thing he'd never be anything. "Go around filling out third legs all the time, do you?"

"It's not that big," Aziraphale says in a tone Crowley really doesn't appreciate. 

He twists his torso to stare back at the angel.

"Perfectly lovely size for what it is. Wonderfully suited to the task, I'm sure."

Crowley spares a moment to wonder whether the angel's talking about Crowley's or his own. The lilt seems a bit too fond to be about Crowley, but there's an undercurrent of condescension there that he certainly hasn't missed.

"So it happens a lot, to you?"

"I wouldn't say a lot." The angel has a rather attractive blush. "It's not often. It's just, sometimes things are nice. It just, gets excited, I think."

"Oh, and what excites it?"

"Well," Aziraphale nods at him. The gesture is directed at his face, at least. "I've heard it's very common after fighting. I wouldn't know about during, perhaps you're a bit premature."

"Mmm. Well I can't avoid fighting you, can I?" 

"Oh, likely not. Though if you did decide to stop making trouble, I wouldn't have to thwart you quite so-"

"That's not happening." Crowley wonders if his eye rolls would be more effective with round pupils. Maybe what he has offers him the edge.

"No, I didn't think so. Ah well. Hmm. It can happen when you see a particularly beautiful sunset and you're struck by the perfection of creation." 

"Can't say I've had that one happen."

"Maybe not a sunset then. Flowers? A very pretty tree?"

Crowley's lack of ability to relate must show on his face, because Aziraphale shrugs and continues.

"Or when you taste a particularly nice fig. Or, oh, do you remember peaches?"

Crowley doesn't, particularly, but he thinks Aziraphale must have been encountering much better figs than he has.

"Or those wonderful pools they have, where the water comes up from a heated spring underground, and you slip in and it's ever so warm and lovely." The angel wiggles in delight.

"That does sound pleasant," Crowley concedes, trying to ignore the fact that he's just been given a list of situations and places in which Aziraphale has had erections. He's not sure what he's going to do with that information – well, he has an idea forming – but he'll certainly keep an eye out for peaches. 

"If you find, ah, I feel more comfortable with one than without at this point, surely you understand, it is a natural part of our bodies and having one prevents so many problems if one of the humans gets too clear a glimpse of you, but if you find that it's causing too much of an inconvenience, you can just-" Aziraphale cuts himself off and waves his hand sharply. Crowley, who has recently had some thoughts that formed very strong associations between the presence of erections and swiftly moving hands, spends a long moment wondering if one of them has grossly misunderstood something about crucial about masturbation and if Aziraphale is advocating for backhanding one's arousal away.

"You hit yours?" He asks, with a level of shocked incredulity he feels is entirely appropriate. 

The angel reels back, "No, no they warned us not to do that. I meant just-" he makes the gesture again. It clarifies nothing.

After several seconds of silence, that seems to dawn on him. "I mean, you can change your body very slightly, get rid of the bits that are causing problems, at least the visible part. I find, ah, I find it's more convenient if you learn to handle it on your own terms."

"Oh," Crowley nods. Then, "Oh, do you?" he grins.

The angel sniffs. "You'll never learn to control it if you don't keep it around. It's not that hard."

"Maybe not for you."

"You'll get the hang of it; you're clever enough."

Crowley doesn't know quite how to respond to that, for several reasons.

"Are you, erm, recovering yet?" the angel asks after another moment.

He looks back down at himself, though he's sensitive enough that doing so is only for show. 

"Doesn't seem so."

"Right. Erm, would it be, I only mean this in the most courteous of ways, but would it be alright to say that you were incapacitated and I won this one. It's only, you know, they're getting away."

The humans he'd been assigned to tempt are making their way slowly but surely to the horizon. He really doesn't think Aziraphale can have much of a win with them, mostly because they'd let two of their travelling companions fall behind and just gone on without them, and that doesn't feel like the sort of thing selfless, fellow-mankind-loving people do.

"Ehh, yeah. I escaped by the skin of my teeth though, and you've been horribly delayed."

"What a horrible expression." Aziraphale reaches out to drop a quick pat on Crowley's hip, and that almost startles him into writhing again. "I'll say you fought fiercely. I barely managed to beat you off."

Crowley chokes. "One day, maybe," he says. He doesn't know why he ever lets his tongue do things, really. Maybe it'll be taken as a non-sequitur.

"Do you think they're wondering where we've gone?" he asks as a masterful distraction for his train of thought.

"You know, I don't think I do." The angel sounds almost as put out about it as Crowley feels.

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, almost glowing under the rays of the sun. "You could tell them I collapsed. You stayed back to help me, but you weren't able to do enough alone and I died."

Aziraphale glances back at him, the beginning of a smile Crowley's not sure he approves of lifting his lips. "I could act the scene out for them."

"Oh, no. No, no, no,"

His protests do no good, as he knew they wouldn't. Aziraphale falls back against the ground, reaching a beseeching arm out to the heavens.

"Alas, here I lie, abandoned by all but one of my... my compatriots."

"Stop," the demon moans, turning not quite far enough to block out the sight of Aziraphale's dramatics.

"Cruel fates! If only those I travelled with had spared a thought for their fellow man," Aziraphale continues, loud enough to drown out Crowley's moan, "this tragedy could have been avoided." He heaves a cough, much in the fashion of a person who has never, ever before coughed or even heard one. "And now, I die!"

Aziraphale lets his hand fall to the earth and lays there for a second, utterly unmoving, before twisting to look at Crowley.

"The moral is not to leave people to die," Aziraphale clarifies helpfully.

"Aww, don't do that. They're gonna think you murdered me."

"They would never!"

The angel is far too ridiculous for Crowley to have these responses to him. And yet. 

Crowley knows what he's done, what it means that in a few short minutes Aziraphale has made him feel like he doesn't have a reason to be the more self-conscious of the two of them.

He hates how charmed he is. Absolutely hates it.

"Go on." He waves his arm at the backs of the humans, "Don't let them get away. Remember to let me know how convincing them you're a murderer works out for you."

The angel huffs as he stands. Then he stretches, and any composure Crowley might have managed to regain during that last display is washed away by this one.

"Until we meet again then, foul servant of evil." Aziraphale nods at him and starts off.

"Try not to get discorporated, you poor pious patsy." He's a bit proud of that one.

The angel waves but doesn't look back, and after a moment Crowley takes advantage of the privacy to slip a hand under cloth and run his fingers over tight, swollen flesh. He stares at Aziraphale's back – or at least, parts very near his back – as he grips himself, and he thinks he manages to hold out long enough that by the time he groans with release, muffling it against his palm, the angel must be too far away to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: *embarrasses himself in front of his crush*  
> Aziraphale: Hold my beer


	2. Chapter 2

It happens again.

It was probably bound to happen again. Between the dreams and the waking fantasies and the frankly horrifying discovery that he only seems to increasingly enjoy Aziraphale's company the more he's subjected to it, odds were good it was going to happen again.

When it happens again, it happens in a fight that's mostly for show.

They sort of have to do it occasionally, the whole good vs. evil thing, triumph and victory for the home team. Humans like to see it played out as more than just allegory.

There are humans watching, which, if he had anything resembling a sense of shame, ought to put him right off no matter what. There's nothing quite like having an uninvolved mammal staring at you intently to put you off the whole concept of lust. But all it does is add an extra hit of shame to the arousal roiling within him; that might actually be making him harder.

They're not watching from up close, at least. There's an entire flock of sheep and half a hill between the humans and his unruly erection. And an angel. That's a key factor.

It's a fight for the sake of having a visible and dramatic fight, but he has by no means agreed to throw it. Neither has said angel.

He sneaks his way under an arm and tries to get a grip that will let him force Aziraphale onto his stomach. They're not human, but the bodies mostly are, and the pain sensations they can produce are remarkable – Aziraphale has a tendency to freeze up when jabbed in certain spots under his ribs, and Crowley has every intention of using that knowledge.

Then Aziraphale fits a leg between Crowley's and presses the edge of his hip right to the front of Crowley's, and what he feels there makes the angel freeze up even more effectively than a well-placed jab.

Crowley doesn't move for the advantage. 

"Really, my dear?" He asks. Crowley's hips jump, just the once, pressing even harder against him, and Aziraphale's grip tightens around his arm and the back of a thigh.

They are twined and twisted around each other. He can't help it. He really can't; it feels so good, so very right.

He is still in a position where he can prove his superiority in this match. He could hold down his adversary, keep him tightly squeezed until he accepted Crowley's strength, until he'd gladly submit to a worthy partner- a worthy opponent. 

Aziraphale's grip turns even more crushing for a moment, strength enough in his fingers to press the blood out of flesh. Crowley's thighs spread, the muscles in his legs going as malleable as overcooked vegetable. He moans, and he can feel the heat of his breath bouncing back from Aziraphale's deliciously close skin.

"It's not my fault. It just happened."

"It just happened while you were losing. Were you hoping I'd jump back like last time and they'd count that as a victory for you?"

"'M not losing," Crowley says, not one to let preliminary evidence get in the way of a good theory, and tries to wriggle his way further under Aziraphale's arm to get at his back. 

He doesn't make it.

Aziraphale twists just so, and Crowley's back hits the grass, the greater part of Aziraphale's weight pressing him into it.

"I'm not going to give way this time, so you can go ahead and put that away for now."

"I really can't," he says, but he gives a genuine effort. You have to be in a certain state of mind to exert that kind of control over your form, and he's the furthest thing from it.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you know what these bodies are like?" It's a question, not a statement. Not anything that sounds convincing or tempting, not up to his usual standards. He can barely think like this – all of his mental energy is being rapidly exhausted trying to remember why he shouldn't try to thrust up.

"I do," Aziraphale says, lips terribly, wonderfully close to his own. 

He breathes. He lies there and he waits for Aziraphale to do something, because the angel is very much the one in charge right now. 

He'll take whatever he's given. Pressed tight between the solid earth and the sturdy, steadfast mass of his angel, he'll be proud to.

Aziraphale moves, shifts his grip without lightening it, and the excitement almost undoes Crowley. He tries to thrust up, his body moving without his permission, but he can't; Aziraphale's form and weight nail him down, holding him exactly as Aziraphale wants him. He feels the whine wending its way out of the back of his throat. He feels the pulse start as the entirety of his conscious sensation narrows to his balls and cock, as he pumps into the space between their bodies which, moments ago, was so tight he could feel the compression of every heartbeat. That space grows, and grows, and he's being twisted. He has a back, and a hip, and there are hands on them, and then there aren't, and he has a whole lot of body, and it's rolling indecorously down the side of a hill.

It becomes clear to him – impressively rapidly, really – that the angel has flipped them over and thrown him down the far side of the hill, out of sight of the sheep and the awful, staring humans.

He rolls to a stop and looks up to see Aziraphale staring down at him from the top of the hill, white wings out and raised in victory.

"Let that be a lesson to you, fiend," Aziraphale calls out, pushing himself rather awkwardly to his feet. "I banish you back to Hell!" He turns to project his voice out at the audience. "Let this be a lesson of the strength of Heaven. None are greater than God! Go forth and, err, be good. Worship the Lord! Do righteous deeds!"

Aziraphale turns back and scrambles down to Crowley's side. "Are you hurt at all?"

"I fell," Crowley says. It seems like it might be the only thing it's appropriate to say.

"Well, I know that."

"You pushed me. You tumbled me down a hill!"

"That certainly is a description of events."

Crowley opens his mouth to reply, and finds no thoughts waiting for him.

"I do hope you're not too badly injured." The angel huffs, "Not that you wouldn't deserve it after pulling that stunt."

"You know I didn't-"

"Yes. Shut up," the angel interrupts, then puts his hands on Crowley. That shuts him up far more effectively than any demands would have done.

He feels warm fingers trace over the tender skin where Aziraphale had gripped him so tightly. He wonders if he'll bruise; the thought sends an almost painful spark of interest to his spent cock. Then he feels another sensation, like a soothing wave moving through his flesh, and that sends sparks of interest to both his cock and another organ he'd like to pay far less attention to.

"You didn't have to-"

"I know," the angel snaps. Then he moves his hands over Crowley and repeats the healing several times. "Still, I hurt you and you didn't- you weren't trying to hurt me. It wasn't fair."

"I didn't mind."

"I noticed."

Crowley's not sure how to respond to that, so he goes with a classic: the awkward throat clearing. 

Aziraphale accepts the bid to move the conversation forward. "We don't have to ever mention it again," the angel proposes. "It's not, well, certainly it doesn't have to be a- you know how it is, we both do. It happened and it's fine. Let's never speak of it again."

"Yeah, alright." He's pretty sure this plan isn't going to go wrong. Really though, he appreciates Aziraphale's readiness to not make it a whole thing. If he did want to talk about it, certainly Crowley would have to do most of the mortifying explaining. He's the one who'd, ah, he snaps his fingers, and neither of them have any stains on their robes anymore.

"Am I done?" Aziraphale asks, after one last wave of healing soothes his flesh. 

"Feel better than I did this morning," Crowley assures him. He rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms out in front of him. Honestly, he feels better than he has in ages, and more relaxed by far.

"Are you just going to leave those out?" he asks, jutting his chin at the angel's wings when he notices Aziraphale watching him.

"I so rarely have a chance to stretch them." He hesitates for a moment, then gives a rather awkward smile. "I thought I might leave them out for a moment. I'll tuck them back in when I'm ready."

They are, well, they're very nice wings. He knows that; he's seen them before. He's spent rather a lot of time thinking about them if he's honest, which he isn't, obviously, what use does a demon have for honesty?

"They are looking a bit, ehh, they could use a bit of a groom if you-"

"Well I never," Aziraphale gets a look on his face like he's got a mouthful of wine that's turned to vinegar, and in a moment the wings are gone.

"You really are incredibly rude," Aziraphale huffs.

"Come on, I didn't mean it like that," Crowley whines, masterfully avoiding in any way conveying that he had meant it in a 'Please let me run my fingers through your feathers,' way.

"Perfectly lovely, they were. Wonderful specimens. I was very impressed."

Aziraphale delivers a glare from the corners of his eyes. "If you keep that up, I'll push you down the hill again."

"You'd have to drag me back up first."

"I could." 

Crowley doesn't doubt it. He tries not to like the thought too much.

"Mmm, I'm tricky though. I'd escape and slither off before you made it all the way up."

"Then I suppose I'd have to bind you."

Crowley follows Aziraphale's gaze to his wrists. That's a surprisingly interesting possibility.

"Gag you as well, I expect," the angel adds.

"Oi!"

"Think of how much trouble that would save."

He rubs his fingers together and wonders whether Aziraphale would fetter them too. He'd have to; if Crowley had use of them he'd be able to pick apart whatever ties were on his wrists. He has very clever hands.

He remembers, suddenly, a plan he'd come up with a while back to prove as much.

"Oh, Oh! I meant to show you ages ago. Do you have any string?"

"Why would I have string?"

"There's a game with it, I think you'll like it." He convinces a long, soft loop of cloth cord into existence. "Watch this." 

He twists the string between his fingers, looping it around and through between his hands to form a shape, intricate and apparently sturdy, and then, with a practiced tug, he lets it fall back to a loose length. "It's entirely human. They started doing it all on their own. There are dozens of patterns, and they're coming up with more."

"I've never caught them at it." Aziraphale stares at his hands as he starts on another pattern. 

"You've gotta watch the kids. They're always figuring these things out."

The angel hums and focusses his attention on Crowley, which was pretty much exactly what he'd hoped for when he'd thought about this before.

"I can show you how, if you want," he offers several patterns in, cool as a desert oasis. 

Aziraphale turns out to be a horrible student. He's overeager, and he fumbles every third step. Crowley would be in a much better position if he found it more annoying. Instead, he takes the opportunity to weave his hands in alongside Aziraphale's, and he shows him, slowly and carefully, how to move and twist his hands just right until the sun goes down and even the sheep have returned home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale: These balls empty! YEET!


	3. Chapter 3

He resolves that it won't happen a third time. Once is an accident, twice is a loss of control, but three times is a pattern.

With all the ingenuous confidence of someone sure _this_ home-based business franchising opportunity is the one that will make them a millionaire, he vows not to fall into a pattern of humiliating himself in front of the angel.

If he can't control the organ, he'll go in without one. Just wipe the area blank. It's a bit uncomfortable, the body expecting something there, typical or not, useable or not, but at least this way, he's sure, he won't embarrass himself.

This is how he gets his wing bitten.

It turns out that whatever this is, the whole thing that he apparently has going on with his inability to control himself the moment the angel gets a grip on him, the excitement is linked to more than just a set of genitalia. If they're not there to pop up in a cry for attention, something else will.

They hadn't planned for any sort of fight, it's just that sometimes Aziraphale is maddening in the exact way that makes Crowley want to put his hands all over him, and sometimes a good scuffle is the most convenient way to solve a simple dispute. Crowley has no desire to be a creature of restraint; if what are no doubt demonic instincts tell him to jump the angel, he'll go ahead and do it. Aziraphale can hold his own, after all, and can usually anticipate Crowley's intent to lunge for him well enough that he's not taken off-guard, or doesn't stay wrong-footed for long if he is.

So Crowley's ended up caught, and wriggling under Aziraphale, and it's going well enough. His chest is pressed to the ground, and Aziraphale has a hand on the back of his neck and his arm immobilized. The angel is holding him rather strangely, seemingly trying to keep parts of his own body pulled back, and that's... he decides to interpret it as thoughtful in a way he appreciates. Good old Aziraphale, trying to help them avoid the awkwardness this time, just getting the job done. 

Then, to aid a particularly spirited wriggle, he kicks out, leg hitting Aziraphale's and knocking it out from under him, toppling the angel down hard on top of him. Or maybe not quite hard, but Crowley feels something as Aziraphale's hips press to the back of his, and it's certainly not soft.

The moment he realises what it is he's feeling – and it can't be, surely, but it must be – the tension that's been curling in his abdomen, his chest, the base of his skull pushes out to find some sort of release, and his wings push out to the material plane. One of them, as it so happens, juts right into Aziraphale's mouth.

Aziraphale cries out and bites down in what can only be shock, then recoils, rolling off of Crowley and bringing a hand up to rub at his mouth.

"You bit me!" Crowley accuses, with all the stunned wonder of "You have an erection!" that he's not ready to voice.

"You just, you can't just pull your wings out! That's not fair; that's not at all fair!"

"You bit me!" Crowley repeats, because it bears repeating. 

"You stuck your wing in my mouth!"

"You bit me!"

"You're impossible." The angel sits back and there is – there very visibly is – more to the area between his legs than Crowley has noticed before. He's not fully erect, but he's swollen enough to tent the fabric.

He's done that – what they were doing is responsible for doing that to Aziraphale.

His wings stretch out of their own accord. He tries to get a good look at whatever damage Aziraphale did to him. Aziraphale had been... he'd helped him conceal himself when he was in a similar state; he hadn't stared. It's only following the rules of engagement to do the same.

And if he keeps sneaking glances, that's only his prerogative as a demon.

He finds little actual damage. It's a bit unfortunate – it means both that he has nothing to guilt the angel over, and that all the pain, because it was very painful, was nothing but his nerves engaging in pointless dramatics. 

"Are you-" Aziraphale starts, sounding hesitant in a way Crowley isn't sure he likes.

"It's fine," he cuts the angel off. "No real damage."

"Oh," there's audible relief in the angel's sigh. Then he goes and follows it up with, "That's a shame, you might have learned something if there had been consequences."

"Really?" Crowley asks, looking away from his wings. Aziraphale's positioned to better conceal his state now, turned slightly away from the demon.

"If you try to thrust parts of yourself into decent people's mouths without warning, you can't be surprised if you end up bitten."

"I'll keep that in mind if I meet any."

The angel huffs, "What exactly were you trying to achieve with this?"

"Nothing! I didn't mean to, it just happened."

"It-" the angel starts, stops, and looks over at him, "Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh, I see."

"Oh, I see," he mimics back, determined to prove he can be just as annoying as Aziraphale.

The angel huffs again and looks away. "If you've had your fun then, put them away."

He tries and finds that he can't. He should be able to; it makes no sense that they won't disappear - the only thing that could be standing in the way is the irritatingly awkward embarrassment coiling through him – he knows why they manifested, and it's due to at least as great a loss of control as what he'd been trying to prove he was capable of avoiding – and that really shouldn't be having this effect. 

"I will when I feel like it. Maybe I want them out now." 

Aziraphale looks back at him. "Oh."

"Oh," Crowley mocks.

The angel sniffs at him, "And you had the gall to insult the state of mine."

A feeling just on the right side of shame twines through him, making his wings flex involuntarily. He shouldn't enjoy that; he has no idea why he does.

"Look at you," Crowley hears, and if he weren't on the lookout for it, the tone would have made them flex again.

He has nothing to be ashamed of, he knows that. It's been a while since he gave them a good seeing to, but they're far from a mess.

"They were in better condition before you tried to take a bite out of one of them."

"Not by much."

Crowley lunges again.

He gets Aziraphale to lean back, mostly from the force of his movement, and jams a knee hard into the angel's thigh. Aziraphale grunts, and Crowley's wings flap once as he wraps his right arm around Aziraphale's folded left, taking it out of the equation for as long as he can hold the grip.

Aziraphale brings his right arm up Crowley's back, between the spread of his wings, then leans forward, sliding his leg out from under Crowley's as he scrambles from the change in balance. Crowley lands not quite on his back, cushioned by Aziraphale's forearm, but the angel's weight pins him down nonetheless. 

Aziraphale breaks his other arm out of Crowley's hold far too easily, and pins Crowley's right forearm to the ground in a constraining grip.

Crowley brings his free hand up to scratch a line of resistance along Aziraphale's back as he wraps his legs around Aziraphale's hips. He can do that much, move too much of himself to submit mildly.

Aziraphale's groan in his ear doesn't sound at all similar to the yips of pain he usually manages to extract when he gets lucky.

"Did you think this through?" Aziraphale asks in a tone he's never, ever heard from the angel before.

If his "Yes," is mostly a hiss, Aziraphale's too clever to comment on it. 

Aziraphale breathes heavily in his ear, and all Crowley can think to do is squeeze at him and dig his heels into the angel's back.

He hears something that's not a word, as though Aziraphale had started saying "Yes," and switched to saying "Good," halfway through.

He scoffs with amusement, and then the air is knocked out of him as the angel twists his hips, slamming the bend of Crowley's down on the ground hard enough to knock his grip loose.

Aziraphale presses down as Crowley's leg slips to the side, dropping weight on his upper thigh so he can't wrap it back around him, can only kick out as he's pinned down with what his corporation's instincts insist are the most vulnerable parts of his anatomy pressed tight against the same of his angel's.

They're evisceratable belly to belly; if he were to try to bite at Aziraphale's neck, to tear at the soft flesh there as a creature like him should, Aziraphale could turn and do the same to him, probably even more effectively. His hips twitch slightly against Aziraphale's and what he feels there.

He digs his fingers into the flesh of Aziraphale's shoulder and feels the entirely erect length of Aziraphale's cock twitch back at him.

He is not submitting. As long as Aziraphale has his arm caught under Crowley, the angel is at a disadvantage. 

All he can move though is one arm and one leg, and perhaps he could dig his nails in hard enough to really hurt, perhaps he could find the right spot to jab with his heel to make Aziraphale freeze up and let him go, but isn't it more interesting if he doesn't?

His body doesn't understand why Aziraphale keeps his arm locked underneath him, providing just enough space to shelter Crowley from the intense discomfort of having more than his own body weight crushing his wings beneath him, but his mind does.

And even like this, that most unreasonable, primitive reptile part of him knows this is **good**. Even at a disadvantage, the one holding him down is strong. Even at a disadvantage, he really can't escape from the grip twisted around him.

He squirms under the angel's weight, rubbing up against him as much as he can to hear the soft sounds it wrings out of him, the cut off noises that flood into his ears. He finds himself anticipating something he can't quite grasp as well, that familiar excitement without a likely outlet of release, growing and twisting in his abdomen, along his spine and in his throat and at the back of his eyes. 

He feels it coiling, tightening and tightening and tightening, and then releasing, in a way. He feels his wings raise and stretch in satisfaction. He feels Aziraphale press the side of his face against the side of Crowley's and shudder against him, gripping him tight in a way that fills him with an impossible urge to pull the angel even closer.

Aziraphale collapses against him, a limp weight rather than the controlled, well-camouflaged muscle he usually constrains Crowley with. He finds – to his great consternation – that he rather enjoys that too.

Aziraphale doesn't separate from him until Crowley has the wherewithal to tuck his wings away again, whereupon he rolls to the side – his arm still under Crowley's back – and stares up at the sky.

"Oh," the angel says, "well."

"Well," Crowley repeats, unable to hold any of his earlier mockery in it.

"That did happen, didn't it?"

"It did." Crowley feels Aziraphale's hand open and clench under his back.

He hears the angel start a sentence three separate times, and feels absolutely chuffed at the experience of not being the one choking on his own tongue. 

"So, uh, shall we say I won that one? For the, umm, for the reports?"

Crowley turns his head to stare openly at Aziraphale.

"What will you give me if I say yes?"

"I rather thought I'd given you two somethings, just now."

"Oh! Are we trading those as victories now?" Crowley grins.

Aziraphale frowns and extracts his hand from under Crowley's back.

"Don't be ridiculous. I only meant-"

"Aww, don't be that way. It's fine, you take it." He feels he can afford to be magnanimous right now, encourage bad behaviour, as it were. Also, he'd quite like to have a bit of a nap.

"I'll tell them you gave a jolly good showing."

"I rather thought I had," Crowley mimics Aziraphale's cadence from earlier.

Aziraphale swallows visibly and looks away, and for a moment something swoops unpleasantly in Crowley's stomach. Then Aziraphale says, very softly, "You did," and Crowley realises that whatever awkwardness Aziraphale might be conveying, it's not because he's insincere. 

"So, how did it compare to eating a peach?"

"A good peach isn't nearly as annoying afterward." Aziraphale looks back at Crowley with a hint of his badly-concealed smile.

"'More irritating than a peach,' I think I can work with that. Can I use you as a character reference for my next review?"

"Mmm, I'm not sure that would look great on mine."

"It's all in the spin: 'Heartily decried the dread demon Crowley, that all might know of his vile nature.'"

"The dread demon?"

"The great, the astonishing, the awe-inspiring, breathtaking, formidable fiend."

"I might describe you as dire."

"No, go with what I said. Write it exactly like that in your next report. It'll be the best thing they've ever read."

"I might," says Aziraphale, in the tone of one who fully intends to disregard perfectly good advice.

The angel wiggles slightly, then sits up and starts pawing at his own clothes, adjusting the now disheveled linen wrapped around his hips to lay more appropriately and fussing at the knots. "It does get a bit, ah, uncomfortable afterward, doesn't it?"

Crowley doesn't bother getting up to snap, removing the wet patch from Aziraphale's clothing and properly reknotting his own wrap, which had loosened in a way that probably qualified as obscene as Aziraphale had shifted against him.

"Not if you do it my way."

"Some of us have certain, certain guidelines to adhere to. We can't just, some of us can't- absolutely cannot-"

"Calm down, angel, you don't even need to breathe." He doesn't try to give any more comfort than that as the angel appears to slow his panic; he doesn't know if he'd be any good at it, and if what he expects this is about is what it is about, he'd really rather avoid the chances of making the situation worse.

"Everything's fine. What happened? You were attacked – twice, I might add – and in return you-" he has to hesitate for a moment, everything he can think to say sends a warm rush through him. He won't confess to being held down and made to submit, won't examine all the twisting, tense feelings that phrasing evokes in him. He squirms at the idea of being thought of as the kind of individual who gets restrained until they capitulate; he can't voice anything like that. 

"-constrained me until I no longer posed an immediate danger," he settles on at last. "Well done you. That's literally what happened."

"Something a bit more than that happened," Aziraphale fusses, but Crowley can tell he's coming around.

"Who asks for details?"

At the angel's silence he continues, "And if they did – which they won't – you're not all that bad at coming up with justifications. It's like when you thwart gluttony and encourage charity by heavily implying you'd be 'ever so grateful' if the humans shared their sweetened buns with the fruit paste with you."

"That- breaking bread with strangers is a highly respected-" 

"Exactly, there you are," Crowley cuts him off before the tirade can get going.

"It is," the angel huffs, but settles. 

After a moment, Aziraphale shifts in place. "Since you've mentioned fruit pastes..."

"Yes?" Crowley rolls his body to face the angel.

"There is an orchard nearby that grows the strangest grapes, have you had the opportunity to partake?"

"Can't say I have."

"The family that oversees it is blessed with generosity-"

"Exactly how blessed?"

The angel continues as though Crowley hadn't spoken, "and their harvests are always so bountiful they don't mind if travellers help themselves to the fruit at the outer edges."

"How convenient."

"Do you want the grapes or not?"

"I'd never turn down strange grapes." The nap can wait.

"Then come along."

Crowley watches as the angel rises. It's a nice sight, but the price for it is being left on the ground while Aziraphale towers over him and looks down with an air of exasperation. He stares back up for a moment, then tries to be obvious about his attempt to contort himself in a way that'll offer him a glimpse up the angel's clothing as he rises himself. 

It turns out Aziraphale's expression can get more exasperated, and isn't that just wonderful?

The demon follows the angel, and lets himself be tempted into something that technically isn't a sin, but gives him the pleasantly accomplished feeling of committing one anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: If my penis was inconveniencing me, I would simply not have a penis. RIP to past me, but I'm different.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley very much enjoys testing his strength against the angel's, and – though he'd be much, much less willing to admit it – he very much enjoys his defeats. 

But he does, still, intend to come out on top, as it were, in their next match.

It's fair to say that he's not great at controlling himself when he has a penis. He is almost as bad at controlling himself when he doesn't have one though, and the... the expressions of satisfaction when he's in such a state could prove to be even more of a hindrance during combat. So he decides to try the other obvious option. 

He quite likes it, for the most part. It entirely eliminates the chances of accidentally sitting wrong and crushing a testicle, and that's a pretty damn winning factor. It feels like this is the option that will give him advantage in brawling.

Still, he decides to give it something of a trial run before taking it into the field. He doesn't want a repeat of anything like the wing incident. 

He finds it wet, in a not at all unpleasant way, but it's slick and slippery, and as his fingers slide over and into his opening he wonders what else could slide in there. Aziraphale – he now knows – can be as affected by their contact as he is. He imagines it, struggling against each other, their clothing becoming disheveled in the fight. He pictures a slip, a plunge in the midst of one of their matches, and wouldn't that be interesting? His body certainly thinks so. He entertains that thought until his fingers prune, and then a bit longer.

He can't use it, he concludes eventually, at least not for this. If he has a penis, he can embarrass himself with it, but once he peaks he can recover. With this though... like this he finds himself seeking pleasure even after it's crested. 

If he forgoes anything, he can feel crests of pleasure, and he can feel them in succession, but he doesn't have an instinct to search them out. They are, one might say, a transcendent result of something thrust upon him; he's not even sure they're entirely the fault of his mutinous corporation. When he has soft folds, he hungers for those crests. His body demands he strive to reach them, regardless of how maddening that becomes; he could be kept writhing for hours like this. It's untenable. 

So he resolves to achieve victory with a prick. It's not his most original thought, but he doesn't yet know it's something of a recurring theme in the human psyche and maintains far more pride in it than it warrants. That, he should one day realise, is a similar recurrent theme.

He has what he's sure is an excellent plan: when he encounters the angel, and when it looks like a physical confrontation is impending, he'll step away to take himself in hand, sate his body enough that he won't be inconvenienced by his unruly desires, then return and demonstrate Hell's superiority by thoroughly thrashing the angel. He's fairly sure his odds for a successful trouncing are higher than ever before; he doesn't have to be faster or stronger or even wrigglier, he just has to be unaffected by their scuffle. Then _he_ can be the one choosing whether or not to be magnanimous in the face of _Aziraphale's_ compromising condition, and that will mean he wins. Obviously, undeniably, that will mean he wins.

His plan is pretty much perfect, and it would be a resounding success too, if not for that meddling angel.

He'd developed several contingency plans for excusing himself to engage in what may be termed a well-practiced self-care routine. None of them had accounted for the angel following him while semi-politely berating him for his conduct. He'd love to say it puts a damper on the whole rubbing one out aspect of his scheme, but to his great consternation, it really, really doesn't. Apparently all he needs to get his corporation worked up is the backhanded praise of the angel calling his latest attempt to sow discord "- artless. I would have thought it beneath you."

'I'll have you beneath me,' he doesn't say only because for once in his ageless existence the words pass in their entirety through his mind before making their way to his mouth. They make an immediate detour to his dick though, so it's a win/loss. If he climaxes untouched before lunging at the angel, will that still count as a victory? Probably not, especially if Aziraphale notices.

"Why are you being so... so..." annoying doesn't even begin to encompass the angel's behaviour.

"I don't think it's _quite_ fair to imply that I'm the one who's been acting out."

That's a statement so ridiculous that Crowley can only respond by making a noise like a duck-goat hybrid making the lamentable discovery that it is, in fact, a duck-goat hybrid.

"My point," Aziraphale gestures at him.

"That's entirely unfair."

"How so?"

"You! You've been dropping miracles left and right all along the trade routes! No restraint! You'd think you were itching for some sort of confrontation!"

"Would you?" the angel asks, gazing up at the sky and all but sighing.

Crowley really needs a moment alone. Five minutes. Maybe three.

Crowley snaps his fingers. "Would you look at that? All the gates have fallen open in the sheep pen by that little village we just passed. Whoever could be virtuous enough to go make sure they don't all wander off?"

Aziraphale snaps his own. "Oh, thank goodness, all of the flock are perfectly content where they are."

Crowley snaps again. "But there are hungry wolves prowling around, about to take advantage of the-"

Aziraphale snaps in return. "I think you'll find they're already full and will be going back to their den for a nice rest."

Crowley raises his hand to snap again when Aziraphale contravenes the rules of engagement and grabs his fingers.

"Really now, my dear, will you please control yourself?"

He can feel his patience snap.

Technically, Crowley decides, Aziraphale struck first. He can reference that if things go suboptimally.

He snarls and throws himself at the angel. He has the advantage of something like surprise, and uses it to force Aziraphale down onto his back in the dust of the trade road. He straddles him, pressing him down and grinding the back of the angel's oh so recently pristine tunic into the dirt. He imagines he makes for a very fearsome sight, but when he stares down at the captive angel, Aziraphale just looks up at him with something like victory already glinting in his eyes and the smuggest little twist to his mouth.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Aziraphale asks in that blessedly condescending tone. Crowley wants to bite him.

He wants to wrap tight around him until the smirk fades from those lips and all they're fit for is soft moans.

The angel squirms under him. It's no use trying to hide it; he's undoubtedly noticed Crowley's condition by now.

Powering through that knowledge, Crowley clamps his shins to each side of Aziraphale's waist, pressing hard enough to stop him from wiggling, then grabs at his forearms, pressing them down against the earth.

"You can't not know how aggravating you're being. You have to be doing this on purpose."

Aziraphale shrugs as well as he can under Crowley's restraint. "Are you going to try to punish me?" There's something off in the angel's tone; he feels like he should suspect he's being laughed at, but he's also absolutely sure he's not being laughed at. It feels like a joke shared, rather than one at his expense, but he doesn't get it and that rankles.

He trusts – to a certain degree – the angel, and from what he knows about him, it's not a trap, but the question feels like one anyway. If life has taught him anything, it's that there is a wrong answer, but that doesn't make the right one more apparent.

"Do you need that?" he asks, bluffing his way through knowing the moves in the game he thinks they might be playing.

The angel opens his mouth, then closes it again. He wiggles slightly, as though testing Crowley's grip on him in the relatively few places they're touching. "I wouldn't object."

"It might be better if you did." Crowley wants Aziraphale's submission, but he wants it after a struggle. He wants it to be fought for, wants his superiority proven. He wants to feel the angel squirming in his grip, pressing back with his own strength. This feeling of Aziraphale under him, having given in without a fight, it's good, but it's not as good as the earned victory will be. 

"I could," the angel offers, not quite softly, then switches back to that strangely teasing tone. "Maybe it shouldn't be me on my back. You're the one who's been terribly naughty."

It's such an absurd thing to say – and an absurd way to say it – that Crowley laughs outright and finally sees the last of that smug look slide entirely off Aziraphale's face.

"That's me, naughty, naughty demon. Part of the job description, you know, 'Being naughty and assorted tasks as required.'"

Aziraphale pouts for just a moment, and gives a little huff, and then Crowley realises that not paying more attention to the angel's hips and legs was a massive tactical error as he's kneed, hard, in the arse.

It's not a quick, sharp jab either; Aziraphale continues pressing with the movement until Crowley's completely off balance, having to choose between releasing Aziraphale's arms and letting his face slam into the dirt as he tips over the angel.

He catches himself on one arm, leaving the left locked onto Aziraphale's right, and finds that his new position mashes Aziraphale's face into his chest. Shame he doesn't actually need to breathe, smothering would probably be very effective. 

Aziraphale definitely, definitely knows what state of excitement Crowley is in now. First contact has unmistakeably been made.

He goes for a quick wriggle, because even though he's not trying to squirm away at the moment, the movement makes things feel wonderful. Aziraphale exhales, warm and damp against his chest, and in a moment of brilliance it occurs to him that it would probably feel even better lower on his body.

He doesn't have much time to enjoy the thought, because Aziraphale's twisting under him, pulling his arm to the side in a move that either forces Crowley to let go or be dragged along with it. Given Crowley's general reach, it wouldn't be a problem, but in his already off balance position he's pulled further out of equilibrium. 

Instinct tells him to keep his grasp on Aziraphale.

What this means is that Aziraphale pulls and pushes at him until Crowley is mostly on his stomach, one leg still thrown over Aziraphale's stomach as the angel slithers – and that's not at all fair – out from under him and traps the demon's own arm underneath him. It all happens stunningly fast.

Before Aziraphale can slip entirely out of his grasp, Crowley curves his leg around him and pulls him closer.

It's an excellent tactical play, or as good as, because that is very definitely an erection pressing against him – he twists his hips slightly – pressing against his own, and that, surely, levels the playing field.

He squeezes the angel's forearm and feels Aziraphale's fingers contract in a grip where he'd been pushing against Crowley's right bicep.

That's good, very satisfying; both of their hips grind for friction. But it's not enough.

He tightens his leg around Aziraphale and tries to wrap his free arm around the angel to trap him and push him down. 

This backfires rather spectacularly as Aziraphale grunts in surprise, pushes said arm aside as though it were nothing more substantial than spiderweb, and reaches down to lay a firm grip on Crowley's thigh.

He can feel the indent of each finger, the thumb digging in so deep that he wouldn't be surprised to find a bruise on the bone. The sensation blanks his mind, leaving him too stupefied to even contemplate resistance as Aziraphale pulls his leg up and down, repositioning Crowley's body, slipping away from and over him. Crowley feels the side of his hip slide over the dust of the road, then he's fully on his front, one arm trapped under his chest as Aziraphale finally twists out of his hold. The angel's weight drops, pressing him down. One moment of stunned inattention, just one, and now this; Crowley's pretty sure he's not going to be able to pull any kind of win from this one.

"It always has to be a struggle with you." That distancing, mildly disapproving tone is back. It turns entirely condescending as Crowley tries to find some leverage with which to buck up and throw the angel off. "You know you can't win, not in a show of strength. I've been wondering what it means that you keep trying."

Crowley can try to scrabble with his legs, but to no avail. Aziraphale has the better part of his own draped over Crowley's, immovable as stone, trapping the demon's thighs together and weighing them down.

"I do respect your determination," Aziraphale says, pressing down on Crowley's shoulder as he squirms, preventing him from rising enough to slip his arm out from under him. "Though I'm not sure that's what this is."

Crowley feels himself whining. He is caught and trapped and held. He is entirely at the mercy – in the care of – one stronger than he is. His fingers dig into the dirt, but even as he moves he knows he doesn't really intend to throw it over his shoulder. He intends to feel Aziraphale shift to prevent even that movement, to prove that he's paying attention, that he cares about the control he's taken. 

He gets what he wants. Aziraphale's hand falls over his, firm but not bruising, laying his fingers over and between Crowley's own, immobilizing even them.

"You're too clever to keep throwing yourself into this, not without changing your tactics more than you do." Aziraphale's voice comes laboured, tinted with an undercurrent of something else, as though he's struggling to keep his tone condescending and – a part of Crowley hopes – having difficulty keeping his thoughts in order.

"Maybe you don't notice. I have plans, subtle," His body locks up another notch in its long logbook of betrayals when it forces him to gasp for a breath it should know better than to need, "schemes that you barrel through like some sort of crude barrelling thing." His voice trails off at the end there, as it should for lending itself to something so embarrassingly inadequate.

"They can't be very good schemes if they fall apart that easily," Aziraphale replies at what might very well be maximum pernicketiness. Then he sighs, audibly and in a way Crowley feels resonate through him, and says, recapturing a hint of his condescension, "It must be a form of self-sabotage."

Crowley decides it's best not to reply to that. Given his last attempt to talk back, he just might prove him right.

Aziraphale shifts against him, artlessly but affectingly rubbing his length against what swell of an arse Crowley can lay claim to. Aziraphale repositions himself, not enough for the movement to give Crowley any edge, but just enough to press his erection to the cleft where Crowley's thighs touch.

Crowley makes no move of resistance as Aziraphale presses slowly but surely down between them, sheathing himself in Crowley's body without the need for penetration. He couldn't physically resist if he wanted to, not meaningfully; all he is capable of in this position is either bending to the will of the one who lies over him or making things more difficult for himself.

Crowley groans, and it would be possible to play it off as an expression discomfort, because the organ Aziraphale favours feels incredibly thick when he can't spread his legs to better accommodate it, but it isn't a displeased sound. He knows it, he can feel that Aziraphale knows it. He can feel it in the pulse against his thigh and the way his own erection jumps and thrums with exhilaration. He can feel Aziraphale all around him.

The angel breathes, warming him with breath against his shoulder and skin against his back and the heat of his girth between his legs. Aziraphale shudders, just slightly, then seems to gather himself. 

"One can only conclude that you enjoy subjugation."

It's _not_ true. It's an offensively inaccurate assessment. Aziraphale knows him better than to believe that; Crowley knows himself better than to entertain the idea. He has done a lot, lost a lot, to gain and keep what measures of freedom he has. It's a lie as obvious as "your eyes look human," and yet it makes something curl and twist inside him, increasing the pleasure that's making his skin feel too tight.

"I don't," he says, and has just enough awareness to grasp that it doesn't sound like he's telling the truth.

"You don't want to," Aziraphale's voice has a shuddering tremor to it now. He squeezes, just slightly, where his hand lies over Crowley's own, "but you know where you belong."

Crowley's unnecessary breath catches. He swallows and dips his head, because he wants to protest, wants to shake and writhe and break free and turn all of this around, but his cock is trapped under him, leaking just enough with his excitement to wet the dirt and smear the mud against him where his tunic has rucked up, and in this moment he will do anything to make Aziraphale continue. 

"I am merciful," Aziraphale says, that judgemental tone that provokes such strong reactions in Crowley absent. His voice is open, and terribly wanting, and so raw the demon can only imagine he's barely holding himself together. Crowley wants at least as much as he imagines Aziraphale does, and he wants Aziraphale to know that, but there's no way – there can't be a way – to say as much. Perhaps it is not entirely despite himself that he wants to please, that he wants to be pleasurable, but he, like Aziraphale, knows what he is and what he can't have.

Crowley squirms, just as much as he can, just enough to rub his thighs around Aziraphale. He gets his soft, appreciative moan.

He is incontestably overpowered, unable to fight back with any hope of victory, and he can't even bring himself to resent it all that much. He has been subdued by what his body assures him is a more than worthy opponent and his mind is insisting is a... a playmate that can be relied upon to push this game no further than the brink of safety.

"I know better than to expect mercy from Heaven," Crowley pushes out through the haze of arousal and his body's demand that he be still and compliant. It's pointed, and maybe rather cruel, but it conveys what he needs. 

Aziraphale becomes, somehow, even heavier against him.

"Do you?" Aziraphale presses a hand to the back of Crowley's neck. There's the lightest scrape of nail as he moves it up the curve of Crowley's skull, a weight that could turn into a crushing, slamming force without a moment's notice. "And yet you keep coming to an angel." The holier-than-thou tone is back in full force by the end of the second sentence. It hits him right where he needs it.

"Ever the optimist, me." He expects that the next move in this will be for Aziraphale to call him a fool, or to remind him that he'll never fight well enough to earn the chance to be showing mercy rather than in need of it. Instead, Aziraphale stills utterly, pressed so close that Crowley can feel the pause in his breathing, the tension held unflinchingly throughout his form.

The ground has more give to it than Aziraphale does. The angel tightens his fingers in Crowley's hair, pulling his head ever so slightly back.

"Is this how you like it then, on your belly in the dust?"

He hangs for a moment, feeling his being strung tight between the ache in his balls and the sharp pain at his hair follicles. Then he crests, pulsing his release into the dirt, making it slick against his stomach as Aziraphale gently rocks into him.

"Apparently," Crowley hears himself saying as his body returns to something he might conceivably one day be able to control.

Crowley, spent and lax with it, lies bonelessly as Aziraphale ruts against him. The angel laughs, not unkindly, releases his grip on Crowley's hair, and cants his hips in movements too short to properly be called thrusts.

Crowley's only regained enough of his wits to realise that the feeling in his arm is most definitely discomfort when Aziraphale robs him of them again by pressing his forehead against Crowley's shoulder and moaning as he pulses and twitches between Crowley's thighs, leaving them wet and – Crowley would argue it is entirely appropriate to use the descriptor – defiled.

Even sated, Crowley finds the weight of the angel over him soothing. Still, he can't manage to think up or voice a protest when Aziraphale rolls to the side and pulls him along. The sensation as his weight lifts from his arm is unique, sparkling under his skin.

"How, er, are you now?" the angel asks, sitting up and staring down at him. He pulls his hands from Crowley's skin and laces his fingers together, then unlaces them and runs them over the front of his tunic, then a look of realisation comes over his face and he leans over the demon to press them to his arm, a soothing wave spreading out from his touch.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to say when you meet up with someone? I think it's more traditional than, 'Why are all the grapes dried out? I know it was you.'"

"I see you're perfectly fine." The angel frowns at him. He has the most amazing frown. "And that is the traditional greeting when someone's turned all the grapes to raisins. Think of the wine!"

Crowley grins up at him, "Yes, they're going to have to fight over what's left now."

"So are we!"

"Nah, the good stuff isn't from around here anyway. And it wasn't all the grapes. Just one vineyard overseen by people you wouldn't have liked at all, I promise."

"For what that's worth," the angel huffs. Before Crowley can object, Aziraphale is grabbing at his leg and pulling it up obscenely. "I didn't- that wasn't too much, was it? It did get a little rougher than we've been before, didn't it?" The angel stares at where he'd gripped Crowley, where he'd probably be starting to bruise something fierce if Aziraphale weren't already healing him.

The skill with which he's utterly ignoring the drying semen is almost admirable. 

"Oh, no, I, no, I didn't mind." Physically, their fights have been much more taxing than this. Aziraphale's never before started telling him where he belongs though, never been so intently ungentle with that sort of handling.

"Oh thank goodness, because I really didn't mean-"

"No, no, everything's fair in vanquishing the enemy and- I really didn't mind."

"Good, good." Aziraphale gently places Crowley's leg down, also ignoring the mud and the way Crowley's tunic is still rucked up past his waist leaving his spent cock entirely visible. 

Aziraphale straightens his own tunic. He looks away. After several breaths worth of silence he looks back, huffs, and pulls Crowley's tunic down to cover him. "Really now," he admonishes, as though anyone else were around to see or to judge them or he had any right to be scandalized by the sight himself. Crowley supposes Aziraphale has probably disavowed the mess he'd left on Crowley's thighs by now.

"So, that was..." Crowley can't find an end to his sentence. 

"It was," Aziraphale says, as though he'd made any sense.

The angel nods, possibly to himself, and says, projecting his voice as though he expects a group of shepherds to materialize and ask what that had all been about, "I hope that's been a lesson to you, fiend. Leave the people of this land in peace."

"I've only been cancelling out your weird blessing spree. You back off, I will too." He adjusts the lie of his tunic to be slightly more comfortable as he speaks.

"If that is the only way to protect these good people from the legions of Hell, so be it."

"Just me really, Legion's an entirely different kettle of fish."

Aziraphale looks around as though expecting applause or, possibly, for his supervisor to descend from the heavens and offer dubiously constructive criticism. 

Just in case something like that might happen, Crowley snaps his fingers and cleans them up. It won't, but just in case.

Aziraphale looks over and smiles at him, and he likes it. Aziraphale reaches out, almost tentatively, and runs a hand over his side, and he likes that a lot too. Far, far too much.

"Everything really is alright?" The angel asks. 

Mostly it is. Sure, if Crowley were to ask himself 'What is there to say,' they'd probably be here a while discussing things he's not sure he want to discuss, but if he asks 'what can I say?' the answer gets a lot simpler. 

"It really is. What about you? I knocked you down hard. Could check your bottom for bruising."

Aziraphale laughs for him, then pauses and seems to think it over. "I think I am. It was- but I think I am."

Crowley nods at him. "Good. That's good." Despite the turbulence he would expect of his thoughts after all that, he feels calm, as relaxed and content as he thinks he can get. He's sated in a way that exceeds his usual post-orgasm relief, as though more than his body has been put to ease. He hopes Aziraphale feels the same.

The angel looks down at where his hands are fussing at the hem of his tunic. Crowley stares unabashedly because he can. He has an urge to reach out and take the angel's hands in his, but he- there are some urges he can resist.

Aziraphale giggles again and looks over at Crowley. "'Apparently'?" the angel asks in a poor but still unmistakable imitation of the stunned, orgasm-drunk tone he'd heard.

Crowley pushes an arm out – not really aiming or putting force behind it – to push Aziraphale away. "Shut up," he complains.

"No, no. I'm sorry. It only sounded- I rather liked it, really."

"Yeah, I noticed you did."

"Oh, I-"

"Shut up," Crowley repeats. "It was fine. I liked it more than I thought I would. Let's keep it at that, yeah? Leave it there."

Aziraphale nods. "And now, what?"

"Now I'm going to take a moment to rest here. Listen to the," he throws his arm out again, gesturing widely at the world around them, "sounds of nature. Make out the shapes of the clouds."

"There aren't any clouds out," Aziraphale informs him, as though that's a critical flaw in his plan that he genuinely might have failed to notice.

"There will be. Lie back, relax for a moment."

Aziraphale huffs, like he's acquiescing to some great, indulgent favour for Crowley, but he wiggles himself into a reclining position and stares up at the sky.

They manage a few moments of silence, and something like peace, before the angel interrupts it to ask, "You said this wasn't where they make the good stuff, the wine. Where do you think it's better?"

Crowley lets the grin spread slowly over his lips. He rolls to face Aziraphale. "I know a place. You want to come see?"

The angel does. He can't let the demon go off alone and tempt unthwarted, after all. The people of the land are left in something that doesn't quite amount to peace, and certainly doesn't qualify as alone, but they gain a bit of respite from angels and demons messing them about, and maybe that's the greatest victory anyone could win out of all of this.

* * *

The angel's in a right mood when he marches over and slams his body down beside Crowley's as though he has a personal vendetta against the fallen tree he's sitting on and intends to do it as much damage by way of his arse as possible. 

"Have you heard?" He asks, without so much as a compulsory greeting.

"Heard wha-"

"No," Aziraphale cuts him off. "Of course you haven't."

He sighs in what amounts to a full-body performance. It might not be technically skilled enough to get applause from any even slightly haughty audiences, but it has more than enough soul to earn a standing ovation from others.

"Somebody," the angel says the word with an emphasis that implies he ought to, as a matter of course, know to whom he is referring, "decided to go and wrestle a human. Tried to write it off as some sort of public relations event. And they lost. Humiliatingly." He says that last word with only a slight amount of relish.

"And now head office has declared that 'physical altercations are below the dignity of the servants of God'."

"Ooh," Crowley moans, thinking that one through. 

"Quite."

"So wait, were you going around jumping on humans whenever they, I don't know, served you some overcooked morsel, spilled their drink on you?

"I should think not, and I don't appreciate the implication." Aziraphale leans toward him, "They can't be expected to hold their own. Shouldn't be able to with anyone even halfway- It would be terribly unfair."

"It would be," Crowley assures him, "so I'm sure that's what's they meant. Physical altercations with the humans are below the dignity of, hmm, most of the servants of God."

Aziraphale throws him a sharp look, but lets him continue.

"I think it's alright if you altercate with demons though. Isn't that, I mean, if not, there's going to have to be one blessedly huge policy change eventually, isn't there? They can't have failed to think it through that badly."

Aziraphale hums in a way that implies he thinks they absolutely could have. 

"And of course, that would leave you defenceless. Entirely at the mercy of any wandering fiends who might want to teach you a lesson about the superior strength of Hell.

Aziraphale ducks his head, flicks his gaze toward Crowley, then quickly looks away. The demon can't help but grin as he leans closer. 

"Imagine I leapt on you in front of the humans, completely overpowered you without breaking a sweat. Wouldn't that be a public relations nightmare?"

"It does sound off-brand," Aziraphale concedes with a bit more sass than Crowley finds absolutely necessary. Not that he doesn't enjoy it. 

"Surely, if you're attacked first, you'd be permitted to defend yourself." He doesn't add anything like 'It would be absurd otherwise' because if he remembers anything about heavenly policy, that's not going to help his argument. 

"Well I, I suppose if someone were to attack me, I'd have to react in the moment. I'd do whatever was most appropriate."

"Right," Crowley agrees. "Difficult decisions have to be made in the field." He leans closer. 

Aziraphale's eyes are wide, and his cheeks are starting to colour. His lips are open, just slightly, and Crowley can't seem to look away. Crowley wants, fiercely, to close the distance between them.

So, of course, he pulls back just enough to really put his weight into his momentum when he pushes Aziraphale off the log.

Any rational observer would be forced to concede that Aziraphale had no choice but to reach out for the demon, first to try to steady himself and then, when denied that, in perfectly justified retribution. 

And when the demon tumbled after him, with what can only reasonably be assumed was intent to commit vile acts upon his person, it was well within the angel's rights – it could be concluded that it was his very duty – to turn the ploy of the brute back against him and press upon him a full and weighty understanding the sublime and potent vitality with which divine servants are endowed.

That was the general gist of what was going to be written in the reports, anyway.

It didn't matter much; it was going to be millennia before anyone bothered to really read any of them, and even longer before anyone realised how many of Aziraphale's obliquely worded answers under the _Reason For Delay_ heading were about needing time for what could effectively be rephrased as having "fucked a demon into submission". 

By the time that will be a concern to anyone but the two of them though, Crowley will have cultivated so much self-control over his corporation that he'll be able to keep a statue of two wrestlers, wings open and spread wide, on display in his living space and only rub himself raw about it when convenient. He'll be able to saunter up when he catches the angel looking, and ask if he wants a rematch, and even though, by some measures, his skill in combat won't have particularly improved, by others he'll be able to say he's become very good at this.

Crowley will be free and sure enough to brazenly reach out when he needs a caring – or a less than kind – touch, and Aziraphale will be more than happy give him a hand.

In the end – or at any point – that's a pretty decent way for things to come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angel and demon can have little a happy ending. As a treat.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this fic. I hope it was fun to read to the end too!


End file.
